Usually at the outset of a new month I have a big burst of energy. There is something about turning the page on the calendar that feels refreshing and uplifting and while I won’t say that none of that new month optimism is present for me at the moment, it would be dishonest of me to pretend that it is not coupled with a great deal of weariness. The cumulative strain and grief of a full year of navigating a pandemic, some recent news from a doctor that was not devastating, but certainly left me shaken, and the uncertainty about what lies ahead for me and for us finds me arriving at this new month with a little less vigor and pep than is typical for me. And I’ve decided that that’s okay.
As someone who, more than anything, wants my legacy to be one of uplifting others who are struggling, I often find myself walking a fine line with what I share with my community here online. I, of course, want my words and images to bring hope, inspiration, and nourishment to anyone who comes across them, but I am also committed to being real and honoring the full spectrum of my/the human experience. If you’ve been following me for any length of time you know that I do not have any interest in bypassing or toxic positivity.
And so, my message for the beginning of this month is a tempered one and draws from a lesson that my father gifted me with when I was in 6th grade. It was a tough year for me. Up until this last year I would have said it was the toughest year of my life. My home life was chaotic and overwhelming that year and for the first time in my academic career, my grades suffered to the point that my report card required a parent’s signature. As I handed the report to my father, my hands shook. I was ashamed and also scared of what his reaction might be.
He reviewed my grades and then looked at me and calmly asked, “Did you do your best?”
I answered “yes” honestly as tears welled up in my eyes and then he placed his giant bear paw hands on my shoulders and said, “Then, I’m proud of you.”
I broke down into sobs of relief and some other feeling that I still can’t quite name.
To know that it was enough, that I was enough, despite the ways I felt I had fallen short, shattered me.
I have thought about that moment so much over the past year and especially in the past handful of months, none of which has looked anything like I would have hoped.
There have been days where I have been able to create meaning and purpose out of these odd times, but there have also been days where I have struggled to hold myself together or do anything of substance at all. On the days where I’m in the latter experience, I have noticed the voice of my inner bully piping up, telling me I should be doing more, or that I should be handling things better. And then, I remember the question my father asked me and I ask it of myself: Am I doing my best?
And as long as the answer is yes, I take a deep exhale and begin the practice of releasing myself from the grips of shame and not-enoughness.
Some days, our best is what we envision it to be. For me that looks like taking good care of my mind and body, showing up in my power and light, and engaging in meaningful work that serves both myself and others.
But some days, our best just looks like making it through. And whatever that looks like for you, please know that you deserve grace on those days, too.
As I look to this new month ahead, in this wildly strange time, I don’t feel the need to set any big goals or place high expectations on myself. The only thing that I am asking of myself in this moment is that I do my best. And my hope for myself, is that I truly know in my heart that it’s enough, that I am enough. I hope you know that you are, too.